


Plague

by TourmalineQueen



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels with proper handwashing techniques, Aziraphale gets a cold, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Etheral and Occult Beings get a taste of being human, Etheral and Occult beings learn how to human, Hurt/Comfort, Hypochondriac Angel Thinks It's Coronavirus, M/M, Pestilence is a pest, Sickfic, The Bentley has Opinions, or Spanish flu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23143519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TourmalineQueen/pseuds/TourmalineQueen
Summary: Written for With_Rainfall's Comment Fic Prompt:Any, any/any, sickfic and h/cPost-Notmageddon, Aziraphale and Crowley get a taste of what it is to be human when Pestilence decides to have a last hurrah. It's... not fun. At least Aziraphale has proper handwashing technique. It's a cold, not Coronavirus."There, there," he said unconvincingly."Oh, don't, if you don't mean it. I'm miserable enough as it is."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48
Collections: Bite Sized Bits of Fic, Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2020





	Plague

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistrali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/gifts).



_Ah-ah-choo!_

The sound of the sneeze echoed through the stacks of A. Z. Fell & Co. bookshop in Soho, London.  
Ordinarily a sneeze in a dusty, musty second hand bookshop would be nothing unusual, but the proprietor disliked customers and never fell ill himself, and neither did his partner, the enigmatic Crowley.

"Angel? I thought we were closed?" Crowley called from his sprawl on the couch in the back room. Somehow the words could be clearly heard everywhere in the shop.

"We _are_ closed," came Aziraphale's peevish reply, also magically audible throughout the building.

"Then who sneezed?" Crowley asked, his head dropping down the arm of the couch to gaze upside-down through the entry to the back room.

"I did," Aziraphale replied, irritably, sneezing once, quickly again, and shuffling his feet gently and chafing his hands up and down his arms, as he made his way into the back room in the eastern end of the shop.

Crowley was silent for a full forty seconds. Then, " _You_ sneezed? But you don't sneeze unless you're trying to fit in with the humans!"

Aziraphale made his way to the couch, and yanked the soft, knitted throw off from behind Crowley, almost dumping the demon to the ground. The angel sniffled and glared sourly at the demon, wrapping the throw about his shoulders like a cloak.

"Apparently I do, now. Why is it so cold in here?"

Crowley let his sunglasses slip up his face and he stared at Aziraphale. "You feel cold? In _here_? The room that's been made warm enough to suit my cold-blooded reptile needs? Even I'm almost too warm in here, and I set the thermostat. Are you alright, angel?"

Aziraphale sat heavily into his preferred chair, breath gusting out of his mouth. He swiped a hand across his face.

"Why is my face so hot when I feel such a beastly chill, Crowley? I haven't sneezed spontaneously in six thousand years. And I'm exhausted, aching all over, like the humans that come down with influen- Crowley! Could I have influenza? Or this Corona pandemic? How many millions were lost to the Spanish flu? Or - were you asleep then? I just remember the humans dropping like mayflies. It was very lonely."

Crowley sat fully upright and tossed the sunglasses to the coffee table, eyes wide, serpentine, and worried. "I've been so focused on threats from Upstairs or Downstairs it didn't occur to me that there might be a different kind of threat to y- us. Let's get you up to bed and I'll look up the remedy for Influenza."

Aziraphale nodded wearily, and grabbed a handkerchief and sneezed powerfully into it. He finished snuffling into it and snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. He snapped his fingers again. Again, nothing happened. Crowley snapped his fingers and they both appeared in Aziraphale's bedroom. With a second snap of Crowley's fingers, a ceramic sink with some lightly scented soap appeared in front of them. Crowley pointed to it. Aziraphale sighed and complied with the silent order, humming some Gilbert & Sullivan under his breath as he soaped and swished his hands in the warm water.

"'f I've learned one thing from having to deal with Pestilence down through the centuries it's that soap works against most bugs," the demon commented. "Fourteenth Century the humans that didn't die of plague were the ones that could afford proper hygiene. Fuck Pestilence, and fuck the Black Death."

"Hear, hear," said Aziraphale, who then promptly drew his arm up to face height and coughed into the crook of his elbow. "Oh, my dear, I am so tired it hurts, physically _hurts_ ," he complained. "I am not used to this corporation hurting me."

"Need help undressing, angel?" Crowley asked gently. 

Aziraphale nodded miserably. Crowley snapped his fingers and Aziraphale's clothes were suddenly a long, soft, cotton nightshirt in his favourite tartan. Aziraphale blessed Crowley with a look of pure, loving gratitude, marred only when he crinkled up his nose and snorted phlegm.

"Oh, my dear, thank you," the angel said, once he had swallowed it. 

Crowley winced, grimaced and, stepped back, gesturing towards the bed. The angel got into bed, and pulled the covers up. The angel directed another beseeching look in Crowley's direction.

"Ah-ah, no, angel, you can tuck yourself in. I survived Spanish Flu in the 1920s, I survived bubonic plague in the 14th Century, I am not about to fall victim to whatever miracle-draining affliction has you sneezing and snorting like a human male with Man Flu," said Crowley, stepping away from the bed. 

Aziraphale's pleading look turned to one of sorrow and disappointment, and Crowley softened, relenting with a mock-put-upon air. 

"Oh, very well then. There, there," he said unconvincingly.

"Oh, don't, if you don't mean it. I'm miserable enough as it is," Aziraphale replied wretchedly, hiking the duvet up to his chin.

Crowley took the duvet from the angel's grip and tucked him snugly into bed and pressed a gentle kiss to his too-warm forehead. 

"Oh," said Aziraphale, "thank you," he then turned away and coughed into his handkerchief again.

Crowley snapped his fingers and a tray appeared miraculously, a bowl of gently steaming soup, a pot of hot water and a jar of honey, and a vintage hot water bottle and ice pack all sitting comfortably on the tray despite there not technically being enough space for all of them. 

"What d'you need, angel? I've seen the humans use these to treat the symptoms of flu with these."

"Hot water and ice?" Aziraphale asked, then shivered, face flushing, "yes I think I could use both of those."

Crowley settled the hot water bottle on top of the covers and the ice pack on Aziraphale's aching, fevered head, then prepared a soothing drink of hot water and honey to soothe his cough. He looked over at Aziraphale, who was so snug in the bed that he couldn't possibly lift his head to safely swallow the warm drink, and quietly miracled it away, refusing to acknowledge that he had not planned the correct order for caring for his ailing angel. 

"Soup?" Corwley asked, sounding a bit doubtful.

"Oh, thank you, my dear, but I couldn't possibly. Woudl you - no, never mind," the angel turned away miserably.

"No, no, no, no, what is it, Aziraphale? What d'you need?"

"Well, I know you don't enjoy reading, but... Could you keep me company? Chat to me for a bit? Just until I nod off? You know I don't sleep as easily as you do," the angel wheedled.

All the times the angel had read human books aloud to him over the centuries flashed through his memory, and Crowley knew he couldn't deny Aziraphale's request.

"Do you remember Diogenes and his plucked chicken? "Behold, a man!"" Crowley began, imitating the long-dead philosopher, drawing a weak chuckle from Aziraphale.

The demon stretched out on the bed alongside the angel, and started telling stories of humans they had both known down the millennia. It didn't take long before he felt the angel relax into sleep. Crowley stayed where he was until he was absolutely sure Aziraphale was not about to waken any time soon. Then, when he knew Aziraphale (now snoring phlegmatically) wouldn't easily wake he slipped from the bed, and slithered down to the bookshop proper, where he had left his fancy smartphone. He tapped the screen a few times and left the shop, locking the door behind him with a snap of his fingers. 

He got into the Bentley, which refused to start. He snarled at it. The Bentley still refused to move.

"It's _for_ Aziraphale. Do you really think I'd leave him otherwise?" Crowley asked irritably.

The car's engine roared to life and they took off. They pulled up to a nondescript suburban house some time later and Crowley stormed up to the front door. He rang the bell, an obnoxious tune knelling somewhere deep inside the property. A panel lit up under the bell button.

"What do you want?" A bored voice emanated from it.

"PESTILENCE!" Crowley bellowed. "Get out here NOW!"

"The demon who survived Holy Water?" The voice was curious. "What could YOU possibly want from a retired Horseperson?"

"Get out here and you'll find out, Crowley suggested, using his favourite temptation magic.

"Oh, very well." 

The door opened. Crowley refused to cross the Horseperson's threshold, so folded his arms and waited. It didn't take long for the curious entity to appear before him. Crowley, arms folded, glared at the retired Horseperson.

"Are you responsible?" Crowley snapped.

"For COVID-19? No, that's one of my former interns. I retired," they said pointedly. "What's got you all up-in-arms about that? I would have thought you'd be having too much fun enticing panic-buying of bog roll to bother bothering me."

"Not that - although, that's not a bad idea for a prank. Are you responsible for the attack on the Angel Aziraphale? He's mine to deal with, Hell can go fuck itself if you've struck him down on their orders," Crowley hissed threateningly, weaving from side to side, not unlike a cobra preparing to strike.

"The angel that survived Hellfire is ill? I hadn't heard. You should get him some grapes," Pestilence suggested, their smile both delighted and unsettling.

"So you weren't taken on by Hell or Heaven to send a plague upon him?" Crowley asked.

"Ah. Heaven. I'm surprised you suspect _them_. Well. Ah. They may have made an overture. Sandalphon the Archangel requested a small favour in return for giving me the credit for AIDS back in the 70s," they replied. 

Crowley stored that little tidbit of information for another time, when Aziraphale was recovered and would be prepared to enact a little bit of divine - or Earthly - retribution. 

"And Aziraphale's current malady?" Crowley asked.

"Oh, it's a simple, if unpleasant, headcold. It may turn into a chest infection if he's not careful, but the Archangels didn't wish him to be killed by it. Not that Sandalphon would have shed a tear if he were," chuckled Pestilence cruelly. "He won't even need human antibiotics - although I'd love it if he did take some, and the bug turned into a superbug, as so many human illnesses do now that the humans are so proficient at prescribing antibiotics for the slightest thing. And the forums that I've wandered around, convincing them that vaccines are worse than the illnesses they prevent, oh, the internet is a delightful tool, even for a retired Horseperson. MRSA, Measles, Mumps, some of my finest work and all since retiring," they crowed.

Crowley merely hissed angrily and stormed away. The Bentley took him to an all-night pharmacy in Soho, and the pharmacist supplied Crowley with all the best over-the-counter cold and flu remedies as well as instructions on proper handwashing technique, and to self-isolate if Crowley's partner's flu symptoms persisted in case of suspected COVID-19.

"I'll make sure we both remain indoors and away from everyone," Crowley assured her through the black-and-red snakeskin printed scarf he wore over his nose and mouth, as a concession to potential transmission (although he knew damn well that he wouldn't transmit anything to the humans).

The Bentley took him back to the bookshop without protest. Aziraphale was halfway down the stairs when Crowley entered the building laden with his parcel of cold and flu remedies.

"Crowley?"

"Bed. Now, angel," Crowley barked, pointing up crossly.

"What's the matter, my dear?" Aziraphale asked, coughing into the crook of his tartan-clad arm.

"I had to take a little trip," Crowley replied, "and it went ... well, it went. And there were things that were said. I'm still angry. Nothing to do with you, angel. Upstairs. Bed. Now."

Aziraphale nodded and started back up the stairs. Crowley followed him, after ensuring the shop was locked and properly protected. Crowley could hear the angel coughing again, in the bedroom. The demon walked into the bedroom and slid his hands up Aziraphale's back, massaging gently, using some magic to ease the tickle in Aziraphale's throat. 

"Oh, thank you, my dear," said Aziraphale, when he caught his breath.

"D'you want a ... lemsssssip?" Crowley asked, annoyed that he was hissing on his sibilants.

"Is that the human remedy? I have heard some humans who swear by it as a cure. I think I'll try it, if it wouldn't trouble you overmuch," Aziraphale replied, slipping into the bed again.

Crowley snapped his black silk pyjamas on, and poured some just-hot-enough water from the pot he'd miracled up earlier into a mug with the lemsip, then slid into the bed beside Aziraphale, holding the lightly steaming mug for the angel. 

"Where were you?" Aziraphale asked, then busied himself with the mug and the remedy.

"Paid a little visit to Pestilence," Crowley replied, fighting to keep his tone of voice casual. "Turns out they sent this little malady to you at the request of the Archangel Sandalphon, and it won't kill you, just be miserable for a bit. Unless you get an unnecessary antibiotic. Or refuse a vaccination. Or something."

"Oh, Crowley, dear, you didn't," said Aziraphale, who inhaled the aroma of the lemsip and sneezed into his elbow. Miraculously not a drop of the hot drink spilled.

"I had to know if ..." Crowley gestured to Aziraphale and his nest of blankets, "... this was an attack, and if it came from Hell or Heaven. Turns out Heaven is full of more bastards than Hell is."

"Oh, Sandalphon's not much of an intellectual," Aziraphale scoffed. "He'd attack his own shadow if he thought it looked at him the wrong way. That he's sent this vile malady after me is is hardly a surprise."

"Hmm," Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale's shoulder. Used to a lot more sleep than he'd had today, he was tired. He slipped his arms around Aziraphale's torso and sighed gently.

"We'll talk in the morning, dearest," Aziraphale said quietly, drawing the blankets up and tucking them both in snugly. "We'll both feel better then."

"Night, angel," Crowley breathed.

"Goodnight, my love."


End file.
